


It’s not until the afterthought

by Subtle_Shenanigans



Category: steven universe future - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Butterflies, Diamond eyes, Diamond eyes Steven, Drabble, Emotional Corruption, Gen, Headcanon that Steven has over-protective instincts, Oh Wyrm?, PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Spoilers, Steven Universe Future, Steven needs therapy, WORM THEORY, corrupted!steven, do not repost to another site, emotional issues, for episodes up to A Very Special Episode, introspective?, like when he called Connie ‘my connie’, look the tags make it seem cooler than it is, maybe tied in with pink diamond empath stuff?, memtions of depression and amxiety, no beta we die like men, obviously Hybrids corrupt differently from full gems, possible, theiries, tho too late lol amirite?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtle_Shenanigans/pseuds/Subtle_Shenanigans
Summary: Emotions are such a heavy thing.And when you stack too many heavy things, they topple.Worm.Suffocating on Butterflies #1
Comments: 17
Kudos: 201





	It’s not until the afterthought

**Author's Note:**

> Look I’ve been loving Worm theory for awhile now. So. Here’s a thing?

His breathing has been funny for awhile now.

It catches in his throat and stutters out, enough that only he feels the change. His voice squeaks and he blames it on puberty, but he knows it’s because he had to force the air out sometimes.

But now it is heavy, stuttering in a growl. He’s sitting against the wall, legs drawn up to his chest as he hugs himself. His vision wavers and darkens around the edges, which doesn’t make sense because light is bathed on every surface in his room.

His breathing is ragged, and it’s been funny for awhile now, but tonight something has changed.

_Get inside!_

_I’m not gonna let you get away with this!_

How quick the anger had come; how quick he had let it take over! He had wanted nothing more than to tear Bluebird apart, and then teach Eyeball and Aquamarine **_not to mess with his family_**.

But they had torn themselves apart, then gotten back together, and everything was fine, right? Everything was fi _ne okay and good_.

Except it wasn’t.

Because a tidal wave of fluttering wings sent static in his mind and memories of his recent rages make the pretending seem more important. He knows it’s a mask and he _must wear a mask_ , because he wasn’t going to ruin anyone else’s happy future.

He had caused enough problems.

Whether by Rose/Pink/his mom’s past, or his meddling in affairs beyond himself, he had done enough damage.

He shoves the thought away, locks it up all like the rest. Bubbled _gone_ _gone gone_.

But still, his breathing won’t ease and while he’s all too familiar with the grip of anxiety, this is _different_ ; it’s guttural, choking breaths with a hint of sobbing, and he can’t _see_ except for the pink that pools from his eyes (was he in pink state? He wasn’t angry, or, or-) and darkness closes in the corners. There’s the rusting of wings amongst the static and he grips himself tighter, even as his arm stings and his nails dig in.

(Why does it hurt so much through his jacket?)

He whimpers, muffles it by biting his lip and there’s blood, but he ignores it. His body is starving for oxygen and everything hurts in that strained, tingly way when you need air.

_He can’t fix it._

**He has to fix it.**

_He needs help._

**He’s fine.**

All at once there’s a searing pain and a _crack_ as he throws his head back, a howl choked in his throat. 

Thoughts spill out in searing heat, his skin itches and tears in places, and he scrambles against the floor like he scrabbles inside to grab those thoughts spilling out and bubble them away, far away, because he _cannot do this_.

They spill out of his metaphorical hands, and he lays on the ground and bites back screams.

This isn’t just his head, his thoughts - his literal body is on fire, pulled taut in all the wrong directions. He refuses to open his eyes.  
  
But when has he ever had a choice?

There are claws on the ground in front of him, the tips a dark purple they’re almost black, and lightening to a dark mauve to the second joint. He can see, too, on his wrist and peeking out from the sleeve, dark splotches in the same spectrum.

He whimpers.

His head is too heavy, his teeth feel all wrong, and all he can think is: _it’s finally here this is my punishment for mom’s mistakes._

The last thing Steven hears before he passes out is his head thunk oddly as his exhausted arms give in.


End file.
